A Different Deduction
by JuliaJekyll
Summary: Sherlock is confused about the excessive sentiment he's been feeling toward John lately and is glad when a case comes along to distract him. While on the case, though, he meets Molly's new intern, and deductions ensue...on both their parts.
1. Sentiment

Sherlock did not know why John was late.

More importantly, he did not know why he cared.

He didn't have a date, surely. He would have come home from the surgery to shower and change before a date; John was very meticulous about that sort of thing. He was all about first impressions, particularly when it came to women, which meant that he wouldn't have gone on a spontaneous date either. He'd just gone grocery shopping two days before, so Sherlock doubted he'd gone to the market. Unconsciously, Sherlock pressed his hands together and brought them up under his chin, thinking hard.

It was strange; in the early days of their flat-sharing, Sherlock hadn't even really considered it worth his notice where John was at any given time, unless he needed him for something specific. He'd just kept talking to him, not particularly caring whether he was actually in the flat or not. Now it was as if his absence had become a physical weight.

Maybe talking would help. "John," Sherlock said out loud, "I like the new tea you bought. I had some earlier. You've got my approval should you wish to buy it again."

There was no response, of course. Sherlock sighed and ran his hands through his dark, curly hair. He was fairly sure this feeling had something to do with sentiment. How very dull.

"John," he said, so quietly he doubted John would have heard it even if he had been home, "Come home. I'm worried about you."

The words were barely out of his mouth before Sherlock realized that they weren't true. He highly doubted that John was in any sort of danger; despite all he'd seen in his career as a consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes was not paranoid. Even if John was in some sort of trouble, Sherlock knew that he was more than capable of defending himself. Sherlock wasn't worried about John; he missed him.

As soon as that realization hit, Sherlock got a strong craving for a cigarette. "Damn you, John Watson, for making me quit," he muttered. "Won't even let me have a bloody nicotine patch."

He decided right then that he wasn't going to care anymore. John was an adult and could come home whenever he jolly well pleased. It was none of Sherlock's concern. With this conclusion in mind, Sherlock got up and took a scalding hot shower. All the same, he felt an unwelcome flash of disappointment when he walked out of the now-steamy bathroom and saw that John still hadn't returned.

He lay down on the couch and stared up at the ceiling. Maybe it would help if he played the violin for a bit…but no, that would require getting back up. "John, bring me my violin," he muttered, massaging his forehead with his fingertips. No answer, obviously.

Sherlock closed his eyes. He tried to go to his mind palace, tried to relax. He pictured each individual part of his body relaxing into the cushions: first his feet, then his legs, then…John, sitting down beside him, wrapping his arms around him…

Sherlock's eyes snapped back open as if of their own accord. That was _definitely_ more sentiment than he was prepared to deal with.

Suddenly, at last, he heard John's footsteps on the stairs, followed by the opening of the door. Instantly, he closed his eyes again, not sure he wanted to see John right away after that…odd moment, but still glad that he was home at last.

He wanted to say something so that John would talk to him, but at the same time, he wanted John to think he was asleep, so that he _wouldn't_ talk to him. He listened as John put his things down, walked across the floor of the flat, took his shoes off, opened the cabinet, and began to make tea. It was no use; he had to say something.

"I'll have some if you're having some," he said, not looking in John's direction or even opening his eyes. He was pleased that his voice sounded just like it always did; there was nothing in it to indicate that he was feeling any more sentimental than usual.

He heard John gasp. "Bloody hell, Sherlock," he said. "I thought you were sleeping for a change."

"Not sleeping, just thinking."

"What about?"

"I've been thinking for hours, John; I'm not going to give you the whole list." He stood up and walked toward the kitchen, stepping on and over the low coffee table. "You're late," he remarked, hoping it sounded like a dry observation instead of a question.

"Bit of a disaster at the surgery," John replied, sitting at the table as he waited for the tea. "Child came in with flulike symptoms-relatively simple, not a cause for too much concern-but for some reason the mother had a panic attack. Took ages to calm her down. Sarah nearly had to sedate her."

"Hm," said Sherlock. He sat down across from his flatmate, watching him. John's eyes were focused on the paper. His posture had grown more relaxed since he'd sat down; being back at home was apparently causing his tension to ebb. Sherlock had the sudden desire to go over and rub his shoulders in hopes of helping it ebb a bit more. He immediately forced the thought from his mind.

The kettle whistled, and John poured two cups of tea. He sat there drinking his, still reading the paper, as Sherlock continued to watch him. The whole scene had an air of _something_ about it-something Sherlock couldn't quite place, but that made him feel oddly pleasant. He watched John turn a page, eyes intent, hand wrapped around his teacup.

Ah, yes: it had a distinct air of _domesticity._ How completely, irrevocably dull. How boring and yet, how satisfying.

Agitated, Sherlock set down his teacup. John didn't look up as he stalked across the room, picked up his violin, and began to play. He needed to fill his mind with music, with notes, so that he could be distracted from thinking about John. Little did he know that the next day, he would be fortunate enough to get what he considered the greatest and most enjoyable distraction of all: a case.

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Hope you enjoyed the beginning! Chapter Two coming soon (sooner with reviews!) Let me know what you think and please check out my other Sherlock fics!


	2. Crime Scene

**AN: **Thanks for the follows and favorites! Reviews would make my day as well! Caution: Crime scene ahead. With blood. Enjoy. I don't own Sherlock, though I'm sure it would be fun if I did.

The call from Detective Inspector Lestrade came early the next morning, but it didn't wake Sherlock up, because he hadn't been sleeping. Lately he'd been even more restless than usual at night, his mind occupied both with thoughts of John and with the ongoing struggle not to think about John. Occasionally, he even imagined touching him and being touched by him, and it was never easy to distract himself from that, even with an entire mind palace at his disposal.

This was why Sherlock was so elated when he answered his mobile and heard Lestrade's voice, giving him a brief summary of the situation and telling him to come to a certain street in south London as soon as possible. He agreed with an enthusiasm bordering on mania and shouted for John.

John stumbled out of his bedroom and looked at Sherlock with bleary eyes. "What is it?" he asked.

"A case," Sherlock replied, pulling his jacket on. "We've got a case, John! A woman's been murdered in south London! Isn't it marvelous? Dear God, you're slow this morning; get dressed!"

John, tired as he looked, did not need to be told twice. As Sherlock was wrapping his scarf around his neck, he hurried back into his bedroom and Sherlock heard the sounds of his drawers opening and clothes rustling. Of course John wanted to come to the crime scene with him; he was a man who relished the rush one got from disturbances to normalcy just as much as Sherlock did. It was one of the many things Sherlock liked about him; he wasn't properly brilliant, but he was, usually if not always, a good deal less boring than most people. He liked the thrill of danger; the knowledge that there was no guarantee he would still be alive the next day. Sherlock loved being the person who had brought John back into a world of consistent adrenaline rushes after he had been discharged from the military.

Trained to be ready quickly in situations like this, John was dressed and out of his bedroom in two minutes flat. "Right then," said Sherlock, and led the way out the door. He hailed a cab and clambered in next to John, where they sat in silence for a few minutes.

Sherlock liked knowing that John was beside him, but now that his mind was focused on the case ahead, he was able, with a bit of effort, to transfer that feeling from something sentimental to something less complicated: appreciation of a colleague, rather than feelings for a man. Sherlock always threw himself completely into his work when he had any, and this case would be no exception regardless of how his perceptions of John might have changed. He was, after all, still married to his work; he had yet to act on his strange, uncharacteristic desire to be unfaithful to that spouse.

The dead woman had been found lying on her stomach, arms stretched out in front of her, perfectly straight. It reminded Sherlock a bit of Jennifer Wilson, actually, from A Study in Pink-oh, hell, now even he was referring to that case by John's ridiculous title. This woman, however, was not wearing pink-or rather, she was, but only because her plain white polo shirt had been soaked with blood.

There was no ID found on or near the body, which was just the way Sherlock liked it; things were so much more challenging that way, and therefore, most assuredly not boring. He entered the crime scene with John, Lestrade, and, to his irritation, Anderson.

"Anderson, haven't you learned by now that I can't think with you around?" he fired at the other man.

"Why, because I'm an idiot?" Anderson snapped back, his voice mocking.

"Catching on at last!"

Anderson sighed irritably. "I've got this job for a reason, you know," he said.

"I'm sure that's true," Sherlock conceded, "but exactly what that reason is remains elusive even to me."

"Alright!" broke in Lestrade, passing a hand over his face. "Can we focus on the murder victim here, please?"

"Allow me," said John, stepping forward. Even Sherlock and Anderson fell silent as he carefully examined the body. Sherlock always enjoyed watching John work, but this time, it didn't take an expert to gauge the cause of death: the woman had been stabbed in the stomach and chest.

"Bled to death from multiple stab wounds," John said quietly. "Six at least. Not with a knife intended for killing things, either. I'd say a large kitchen knife."

"Not dealing with a career criminal, then," said Sherlock, moving a few steps closer, avoiding the still-not-completely-dry puddle of blood. "Amateur, killing out of anger. Heat of passion. Pity; serial killers are so much more interesting."

"Could be a particularly violent serial killer," muttered Anderson.

"Oh, shut up, Anderson." Sherlock bent down to examine the body more closely. "Early thirties, single, or at any rate not married. I'd say her career narrows the field a bit…you're looking for a missing masseuse, probably one who worked in a large setting like an airport or a hotel rather than a medical setting, judging by her outfit."

"How can you tell she was a-" began Lestrade, but Sherlock interrupted him with a dramatic sigh: "She's a thin woman with disproportionately muscular arms. Her shoes aren't new, going by the state of the laces and the creases on the top, but the soles aren't too worn, indicating a lot of standing but not a lot of walking. Her hands are soft and her fingernails are short and carefully filed but unpainted-kept that way so she wouldn't scratch her clients."

"Brilliant," muttered John. Sherlock felt an instant rush of pride; he loved it when John called him brilliant, even though all he ever really did was observe.

"I can feel you rolling your eyes, Anderson," Sherlock said.

"Oh, for God's sake, you cannot!"

"So you were rolling them." Sherlock got to his feet and stripped off his gloves. "Someone obviously got very angry with this woman. Find the place that's mysteriously short one masseuse, talk to her colleagues. You know where to find me after you've done the boring work. Coming, John?"

John stood up as well and followed Sherlock out. Lestrade and Anderson looked at each other. "Right," said Anderson, "I'll be getting along with my job now, I suppose."


End file.
